


Pretty Boys in Togas

by tenscupcake



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Book: The Stone Rose, Established Relationship, F/M, Jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 07:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5958259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenscupcake/pseuds/tenscupcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he and Rose meet a young man preparing to pose for a statue of a god, the Doctor's jealousy gets the better of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Boys in Togas

**Author's Note:**

> I can't even explain myself. I recently listened to TSR for the 100th time and after I'd listened to that little scene with Tiro, I kept thinking about that line "it was made by someone who knew you pretty well" and David's d e l i v e r y of that line more than anything, and, well, this happened. It's nearly cracky in its ridiculousness. :)

The door to the sculptor’s workshop slams behind them, cutting off the Doctor’s long-winded deduction mid-sentence. He whirls around, affronted, and crosses his arms over his chest with a scowl at the ornate door that she can’t help but find comical.

“Obviously doesn’t want to share his fashion tips,” he jokes, one eyebrow lifting high on his forehead.

He stuffs his hands in the convenient, if anachronistic, pockets in his toga, and starts back across the garden.

She expects him to return to the pond where they’d been sitting prior to investigating the workshop, but he cuts a path around the marble circumference of the water and heads straight for the main house. Compared to the leisurely stroll they’d taken through the winding walkways earlier, he’s moving quickly, his sandals slapping loudly against the stone. He doesn’t spare a glance to any of the intricate sculptures or trickling fountains they haven’t inspected yet, but maintains his brisk pace with a peculiar sense of purpose. She struggles to keep up, and begins to wonder if he isn’t _trying_ to get away from her.

“What’d you mean – about Ursus wearin’ gloves to protect his hands?” she asks, skipping forward a few steps to compete with the lengthier strides of his long, lean legs.

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” He dismisses her inquiry with a cursory wave of his hand above his head, and doesn’t slow his breakneck walking speed.

“But, I was thinkin’ about it, too,” she continues anyway. “‘Specially when he touched my face. His hands are like sausages!” She laughs, trying to coax him out of his suddenly stand-offish disposition. “And what’s with those leather gloves? Is that common for sculptors, or something?”

“We’ll find out tomorrow, one way or another.” He sighs, finally coming to a halt just inside the vaulted archway that leads to the various guest rooms of the _pars urbana_ , flanked by dozens of geometrically placed smooth, white pillars. “Right then, see you at dinner.” He swivels on his heel.

“Wha’?” She captures his elbow to stop him from swanning off towards his room. (Gracilis’ slaves had prepared them separate rooms, and the Doctor hadn’t protested the arrangement, but he hadn’t spent much of their first night at the villa in his own.)

“Gonna have a quick kip, is all. Hardly slept a tick last night.” He rubs his eyes as part of the charade, but she knows he never sleeps more than three nights a week, and he’s already had plenty in the last seven days.

He jerks his arm out of her light grip and heads down the hall.

Of course, she follows him.

These little moods of his seldom occur without a basis.

Shifting her weight to the balls of her feet, she stalks several paces behind him all the way to the door to his room without drawing his attention.

He swings the door open recklessly, and it bangs against the wall. (Rude and not ginger… this is even worse than last week when he insulted Queen Victoria’s telescope.) Every moment, she grows more impatient to discover what’s aggravated his temper this time.

He doesn’t bother to shut it behind himself, so she easily slips through the frame behind him and takes care of it herself.

He wheels around at the sound of the door closing, and frowns when he sees her standing there, but quickly wipes it from his face and paces towards the large, cream and brown bed. Flopping unceremoniously onto one side, he kicks off his sandals, rolls into the middle, and closes his eyes. He’s sending a clear message that he isn’t interested in her company, but she ignores it. Slipping off her shawl and hanging it over a chair, she saunters over to the bed and climbs onto it.

He fidgets as the mattress shifts with the added weight, his eyebrows scrunching together into an angry grimace that no one would ever mistake for sleeping.

“Doctor.”

“Hmm,” he huffs, irritated.

“What’s goin’ on?” Her voice is gentle.

“Nothing, Rose.” He shakes his head and pouts out his bottom lip.

Through with playing it subtle, she straddles his waist and hovers over him on all fours.

“Doctor, look at me.”

With an overly dramatic sigh, he opens his eyes. She sees sadness there, hidden behind a few layers of anger.

“What’s gotten into you?” she murmurs, rubbing slow circles over his shoulder with her thumb.

He takes a deep breath, but it’s ragged and stutters in his lungs.

“Nothing’s gotten into me,” he says, in his most convincing, reassuring tone. He’s a good liar, and always has been, but he should know better than to think she’ll be fooled so easily.

But she’s not sure what else to do to get the truth out of him without provoking him further.

What could possibly have happened in the short time they spent with Ursus to upset him to this degree? The pre-workshop Doctor peacefully swayed his feet in the pond with her and teased her about becoming a model, but the post-workshop Doctor will hardly look her in the eyes. She’d hardly said two sentences to –

A realization suddenly dawns on her.

All the pieces of this frustrating puzzle fall into place as enlightenment blossoms between her ears.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

“All right, if you insist,” she concedes, pretending to yield to him. “I’ll go and find Tiro, maybe he won’t be so tired and grumpy …” She swings her leg back over his torso with an intent to roll away, but his hand shoots forward and clamps around her wrist to prevent her escape. His neck and cheeks flush with red and ominous creases appear in his forehead, and he _growls._

“I knew it!” she accuses with glee, tapping him on the chest with her index finger. “You’re _jealous_!”

Discovered, he loosens her wrist but his frown deepens.

“You’ve got nothin’ to be jealous of,” she purrs, settling down on the bed next to him and combing her fingers through his fringe in an attempt to soothe him.

He scoffs. “You fancied him.”

“I only talked to him for, like, two minutes!”

“Ooooo, hello!” the Doctor’s face contorts as his voice climbs to a higher pitch in a terrible, rather offensive impression of her greeting to Tiro. “Are you here to pose, too?”

She glowers at him, but he either doesn’t see or doesn’t care. Or perhaps it’s a combination of the two.

“I just love pretty boys!” he continues, exaggerating a Cockney accent.

She clamps her hand over his mouth, silencing the caricature.

“Okay. He was pretty, yeah,” she confesses. He mumbles a string of impassioned, incoherent syllables against her palm. “But that doesn’t mean I fancy him! The only bloke here I fancy is you. That is, when you aren’t being a complete knob.” She releases his lips, and he falls into stunned silence.

After a few beats, he clears his throat.

“You don’t fancy him?” he asks, his voice small.

“No, you git.” She shoves his shoulder.

“Do you still fancy me?”

“Yes.” She rolls her eyes, exasperated, and ruffles her hand through his hair.

“But when we walked into that workshop, you didn’t even help me look for clues. You just waltzed right up to that pretty boy in a toga and bonded about being young, beautiful models together.”

“Doctor.”

“What,” he snaps.

“You realize you’re wearin’ a toga too, yeah?” she giggles, pulling the white fabric between her thumb and index finger.

“That’s not the point.”

“Sorry, sorry. I know.” She smooths out the wrinkles she created. “I was just bein’ friendly.” She shrugs.

“You were flirting,” he accuses.

“So what if I was? You flirt with women all the time.”

“I do _not_!”

“Well, they flirt with you,” she grumbles under her breath.

“ _What?_ ” he demands.

“Forget it.” She shakes her head. “Listen. Tiro is fit” – the Doctor opens his mouth to protest – “But!” – and closes it again. “You know who else is fit?”

He gapes at her for a few seconds, shocked that she’s about to list off someone else who’s more attractive than he is, before it clicks in his mind. His eyes widen.

“Me?” he squeaks, pointing to his chest in disbelief.

“You are so daft.”

“You think I’m _fit_?” His voice reaches another octave higher.

With an exasperated groan, she clutches a fistful of his toga and tugs him in for a kiss. It’s always been very effective at shutting him up, and this is no exception.

He smiles against her lips, sighing happily.

Her conciliatory peck (to neither of their surprise) quickly escalates into a proper snog – the teeth nipping, tongues tangling, hands groping sort of snog that, according to his many rules, is usually only permissible on the TARDIS. He had certainly forbidden any amorous expression beyond chaste kisses the night before.

But at this moment, he doesn’t seem to remember any of his policies on intimacy. He loses himself completely in the kiss, and only a few minutes pass before something warm and hard brushes against her thigh.

She knows they have some time to kill before dinner with Gracilis and his wife, so she pushes against his chest until he’s flat on his back, raking her fingers through his hair and nibbling on his bottom lip. He hums appreciatively and cups her breast through the thin fabric of her dress, so she thinks he’s distracted enough.

Slipping her hand beneath the hem of his knee-length tunic, she skims her hand up his thigh, waiting for the moment her fingertips will touch cloth. But her hand ascends all the way to his hipbone touching nothing but skin. No pants to be found. She chuckles into his mouth as her fingers close around his length and she squeezes him lightly in victory.

He breaks the kiss with a sharp intake of breath.

“No, I…” She grazes her thumb over the head, and then tugs lightly with her fist, and he bucks into her hand. “We… ahhh… can’t... Rose,” he whispers as she sets a rhythm stroking along his shaft. “The… it’s broad daylight. Gracilis or… nngghhh… one of the slaves could… walk in any minute.”

He thrusts into her fist again, belying his case.

“We better hurry, then,” she breathes in his ear.

“Mmm.”

His eyes drift closed, and she knows he’s already caved.


End file.
